The Staring Thing

(Note: I am a week behind now in my goal to do one entry every week. I may decide to have given myself a week off somewhere, or there may be a bonus post lurking somewhere. I've written three thousand words worth of Starr King application material in the last three days, and I have another couple pages to go, so bet on the former.)

Imagine you are walking through Times Square with no pants on. Eyes are on you from every direction. They follow you until their owners' heads twist off from their own curiosity. New ones sprout up continuously. They fix you with an unwavering gaze. Your skin, your hair, your clothes tingle with scrutiny. You begin to feel like Maddux at an Alice Sebold conference. You think you have morphed into Tipper Gore attending a Snoop Dogg concert. Oh, the stares.

Actually, this is not at all what getting stared at here is like for me. (I mostly included that last paragraph for the jokes). In fact, I'll admit, I revel in the attention. Take a moment to let that sink in, I know you're thinking "BUCKY! You're not a whore for attention! You've never once gone out of your way to get people to pay you notice!" Be that as it may, I do appreciate the looks here. This is the first time that good-looking college women have stared at me on a regular basis since my summer job distributing Haagen-Daas samples. This is the first time good-looking college men have stared at me since I learned to stop myself from singing "Oh Delilah" as I walked across the Colby campus. In short, everyone here seems to want to taste this eye candy, and I am soaking it in, like a Twinkie vendor at fat camp.

















(How Bucky feels in Turkey)